a wish for a life
by freakinfarkle
Summary: He wants what he wants, and this time, he gets it. {geekchicshipping}


Dear Serena,

It's been the better part of a year, but I still can't get enough of the unknown love that you offered me long ago. You're a hurricane in the midst of a rural, no-one-knows-where town where the populace is only one, and I'm the lowly, dilapidated barn with copious amounts of peeling paint, and I stand so tenaciously steady until I am broken and pierced with shuddering breaths and howling winds by the forces of your unseen strength. The stalk of the rose built amongst us in covered with sharp, ceaselessly developing thorns, and to touch it would be to willfully agonize yourself; for they would prick and penetrate the skin of your fingers, whereupon blood would flow freely as you wish, plead, beg for release. And when you did so, you wrung your small digits around the spiky stalk of reddish-green, squeezing the mixture of crimson and verdant as you bring it from the fertile soil beneath and diminish its livelihood as you cradle it uselessly betwixt your fingers. The ruined petals fall and shrivel as your purchase increases, resolutely snapping the stalk in two halves, and the red plant is obliterated and forgotten peacefully in the wake of a new seed implanted within the ground, the stem of which is only an outcropping of a singular inch. You leave that one alone, just as you do now for the dead rose behind you. It, the seed which gradually continues to germinate, has done nothing to you yet, so you keep it growing and let it steadily draw towards the Sun, and soon, it turns mature, with its lackadaisical disc fanning out and yellow petals circling around it.

Today, the pleasant sunflower thrives, basking itself in the mere existence of the large star high, high overhead.

Yet by this time, the rose of our love, which you have ripped away from the ground its grown from and discarded without thoughts of dastardly repercussions, has gone to rot. Moreover, /you've/ gone, and it's immensely unruly and unkempt, the demeanor by which I have employed since your disappearance from my life. I see you in the halls, for my fleeting looks have strayed from their indistinct intention, and it burns, it hurts, it shreds me apart because you always look at him -- at the oblivious boy who began so abruptly reciprocating your long-forgotten emotions a year prior. I see you -- and I see you with meandering eyes that stray far from the selected path -- but you never see me; for the obfuscating disposition of your love has brought you devoid of my existence, it seems. In the corridors of the prestigious Celestial High School, you spare me no knowing glances amidst the seas of crowding students like you used to when you belonged to no one, especially not him, and no looks come my way whensoever I think that maybe you might want to speak to me again, might want to up and start a conversation with someone who so long ago was your best friend. My conclusions are subjective, this I am aware of, and of course, it would be better to be objective than to install my emotions within my observations, but I cannot.

And I know -- albeit I want to forgot, I wish to remind myself of simpler times than the complex ones of the present -- that my hope and wishfulness dissipates like ice in the flaming gaze of the Sun whenever you flirtatiously toss your hair over your shoulder in a coy demonstration and offer him -- the boy that made you cry for years on end, the one that told you long ago that he wouldn't see himself with you in his years of adulthood, the one I once considered as a close friend before he committed treason of high degree -- a look filled with eternally longing and inexorable loving that you beheld for no one, save for my bespectacled visage, but I will not abandon any of it, any of my hope; for it will be the only emotion left in my meager possession once my nihilistic disposition abounds without abation all I love and tosses it nonchalantly over its shoulder into the expansive abyss of darkness, of all-encompassing and unforeseeable melancholy.

Bonnie has, on multitudes of occasions whilst I sat and sulked within the basement alongside many of my failed creations and scraps of metal, told me I will eventually find some other girl to love and with which I would want to spend the rest of my life, but my feelings and their immense isolation only have escaped their unpleasant confinement whilst in your invariably amicable presence, and to think, or to merely even suggest, that someone else, of which I do not trust and perhaps never will, could be merely capable of dissolving the spanning heights of my guarded emotions is truly inconceivable, shrewdly unthinkable. The pure bile and acrimony associated with those fleeting notions discourages me from even attempting to approach another female with the intention to court her; for this deterrent has protruded so harshly from the recesses of my stomach to catch and discard thoughts of which could classify one as blasphemous.

Albeit Bonnie attempts to pull me in with her adventurous, philandering ploys to find me someone to love the way I loved you (and still do), I cannot believe that anybody, as many types of deformity they may attempt, can fit the hole in my heart which is shaped in the perfect conception of your lithe yet visually fulfilling figure. I cannot disembody the fact that you, of all the people who worm their way into my existence in spite of the tenacious forms of defense I spontaneously erect, make me thrive in the razing purchase of vindictive and malcontent life, and that frightens me more than you can considerably fathom. It's you that makes me want to continue within a life wherein I cannot conceptualize existence without your exterior assistance; for the connexion betwixt my wants and my needs become unseeable paradoxes manifested in bouts of mindless, persisting frustration and unwillingness to see the pure luminescence of true, human life. Truly, it is seemingly unjust to think of life without you, as I've never felt passionate with anything unless my thoughts turn to you and draw upon your presence for inspiration, and I, in turn, am living an unjust life in my sullen downcast disposition.

As I write this somber confession of unbearable melancholy which, though in my strideful attempts I have tried to press forthwith from me, proceeds in essence to plague my well-being and is increasing its intentional degradation, I must say the pictures that line my bed side, and the ones also captured in the endless storage of my phone, are displayed with such conviction from times unforgotten that an arrogant wish to go back and twist your emotions to come to me -- the ones you had reflected hitherto his spontaneous confessv-- instead of that insufferable playbook continues to push onward through the deep trenches and high edifices of my mind. Feigning ignorance to its mere existence would be folly, if I am to be perfectly honest in my woeful documentations. If I return to bed with the conceptions of such an unprecedented thought, then I, though unwillingly, will proceed through nightmares of my hitherto failure, and I doubt that the presence of this would be helpful in the most general state; for the abhorrence developed in the bluffs of my conscience is more unbearable in its ceaseless, monstrous maturity. Yet as I sit here in my chair and stare at the shaking pen from which the parchment beneath its tip bleeds in copious black ink, I think absently of all the horrendous dreams that abound me in my prolonged slumber. Again, the wish to restart beckons me further into the realms of fantasy that brings me pleasure, ones which, to my inherent blissful glee, are devoid of killjoys annoyingly fashioned in the shape of black-haired boys with eyes that encapsulate years of silly childishness.

If my wish were to come true, then I would be eternally grateful for the formless entity which blessed me with such a thing. Hence, although my doubts are set in stone and carved in the deep, unfathomable enormity provided by your prior movements to reject me, I would no longer waste my time sulking in my basement, developing destructive machines and new technologies which burst in the same way my heart, in all its dysfunctionality, does whensoever I see you with /him, inexorably tremendous yet self-contained and invisible to those who care not; instead my want to have you in my enthralling purchase would abound all notions swirling through the enormous expanse of my intelligent yet barely functional brain, and convincing you of my love (something brushed so easily to the side whilst I was younger, as the knowledge of my feelings and emotions came only last year when it was too late) would be at the very top of my gesticulations. If they succeeded, I would hopefully be able to place my lips on yours and taste the sweet, candy-like succulence I associate so fantastically within the trenches of my unreachable thoughts.

Of course, my doubts go farther than my regular thoughts of hopefulness, and to find something of wondrous quality may be nice, but I cannot say that I truly believe anything to come from my hoping.

It's four-sixteen in the morning. I should really get a few hours of sleep before I am eventually subject to the horrendous corridors of Celestial High School. I bid you a good night, Serena.

\- yours truly, Clemont


End file.
